


Irezumi

by Haldane



Series: Irezumi [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Irezumi (Japanese style full body tattooing), M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haldane/pseuds/Haldane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a kinkmeme prompt: Underneath the stately, well-dressed demeanor, Mycroft is covered head-to-toe in glorious tattoos, Yakuza-style.</p><p>(EDIT: fix of broken link in notes at end)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irezumi

================

John glanced up at the double rap on the door of the sitting room he shared with Holmes. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson, who tended to 'rap and open' - it was her house, after all - and surely even Holmes hadn't descended to not deigning to open the door for himself.

It was a genuine surprise to see Mycroft standing there when he opened it. He'd only met Holmes's rather intimidating brother a few times, and never in such an ordinary setting. He'd certainly never visited their rooms before.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft nodded politely. "Is Sherlock in?"

"No, he isn't," John replied, and then unintentionally blurted out, "I'm surprised you have to ask."

Mycroft's lips twitched in what might almost have been a smile. "It seems Sherlock has come up with a new twist for hacking the phone system. His phone says it's here, but I'm sure he's not out without it."

"I wouldn't think so," John agreed. "I'd - I'd do the polite thing and ask you in for tea, but I was just on the way out myself." True and not true; he had been intending to leave the confines of the rooms, but didn't really have anywhere to go. Down to the corner for Chinese, perhaps.

Making friends with Sherlock had been rewarding, but the sheer time involved had prevented him from making friends with anybody else. When Sherlock was off somewhere John often felt a bit isolated, and sitting idle in their rooms didn't help matters.

"Perfectly all right. Can I offer you a lift?"

John's "Yes" jumped out all by itself. He seized the chance for company, and then realised he had no destination. _Something vague_ , he thought. _But lively, somewhere with a bit of bustle_. "Are you going anywhere near Piccadilly Circus?"

"I am now," Mycroft replied, with a real, if brief, smile this time. "The advantages of having a chauffeur."

==========

John found the silence in the car somewhat awkward. He wasn't used to having a chauffeur driving, which felt different to having a cab driver, although he couldn't pin down why. Mycroft was staring fixedly at his hands, no sign of what he might be thinking showing outwardly. John stared out the window on his own side.

"Sorry," Mycroft said abruptly. "I'm far too used to being in the car by myself, and I've developed the bad habit of using it as thinking time. I didn't mean to ignore you."

John started stammering some sort of apology, and Mycroft frowned.

"I think we might have got off to a poor beginning," he said. "I expected that Sherlock would have told you more about me, instead of leaving me a spectral threat of some sort."

"All he said was that I should have accepted your offer to spy on him, and then we could put the money towards the rent," John said, and then crimsoned with embarrassment.

Mycroft laughed, a remarkably warm and genuine laugh. "Oh dear, I can just see that," he said after calming down, although his smile still twitched from time to time. "And then he left you ignorant until I loomed up again like a melodrama villain."

John found himself thawing towards this more open Mycroft. "It was a bit like that, yes," he agreed.

Mycroft solemnly held out his right hand. "Please, call me Mycroft," he said, his face serious but a tiny gleam of self-mockery in his eyes.

John reached out and gripped it. "John," he said in return. " 'Doctor' always makes me feel strangely old."

Another silence fell, but John felt less strained this time. Again it was Mycroft who spoke first.

"I get the impression that your destination is not the most appealing," he said. "You can share mine as an alternative, if you prefer, although I am doing nothing more interesting than going home after work."

John was startled by the invitation, and unsure of exactly how far it extended. Usually being invited into someone's home was a sure sign of sexual interest, but in this case... _What the hell,_ he thought. _If he does, well, there's certainly no reason why not, and if he doesn't mean it that way, I haven't lost anything. Saying 'no' is a great way to stay celibate, and who wants that?_

Mycroft was waiting attentively for his answer, making John feel that it was more than just an empty politeness. "Thank you," he said. "It's very kind of you."

"Not at all," Mycroft replied, and leant forward to speak to the driver.

==========

John was never sure afterwards how matters had accelerated so quickly. Mycroft had unlocked his front door and, after they were inside, asked John to wait a moment while he reset the security. The hall was unlit, but there was the warm glow of a room just to the right. 

Mycroft placed one hand on John's lower back to steady him along the dim hallway, and John felt an almost electric shock at the contact, an urgent unvocalised _wanting_. He'd turned around, expecting to see surprise or confusion on Mycroft's face - he could almost hear the single eyebrow lifting in inquiry - but instead there was a hot mouth coming down on his own, and the hand on his back was on his ass instead, pulling him in tightly, groin against groin.

He hadn't gotten so hard so fast since he turned eighteen.

They stumbled along - well, John stumbled; Mycroft would never do anything as clumsy as stumbling - to the sitting room. Mycroft begged his pardon for one moment, and headed into another room.

"I hope you don't mind tattoos," he called from out of John's sight.

 _Mycroft? Tattoos?_ John found the idea amusing. The idea of the cool civil servant having a misspent youth was enough to make him shake his head. "You forget, I _was_ in the Army. I've seen just about everything possible in tattoos, what with one thing and another."

"Oh. Good, then," Mycroft said, coming back into the room. He'd removed his shirt, undershirt, shoes and socks, and stood there bare to the waist.

John was literally unable to speak for a moment; he simply stared. "I take it back," he managed at last. "I know nothing about tattoos."

Apart from a shallow scoop around the base of his neck and his hands and wrists, Mycroft's body was covered with tattoos. Or, rather, _a_ tattoo, a single harmonious flow of images executed with a skill beyond John's comprehension. It was as if he had been wrapped in an oil painting.

A willow tree was centred on his chest, branches drooping into a stream that rippled across at his waist, waters somehow appearing clear and shallow at the edges, deepening in colour towards the middle. Single willow leaves, green and yellow, floated on the surface, and through the branches John could catch glimpses of some idealised rural locale, fields in the sunshine with hedges. The branches spread out along Mycroft's arms, twining around his upper arms.

John drew closer, unable to look away. The detail was incredible, and the closer he got the more he could see. Two foxes trotted through the field, one looking forward and one glancing back. There was a grass snake sunning himself on the edge of the stream. Birds perched in the tree, starlings and swallows. 

And all of it was balanced and consistent, all one picture that was totally hypnotic.

"Can..." John swallowed and tried again. "Can I see more?"

Mycroft smiled and turned slowly around, and John found himself astonished all over again. There was a stooping hawk across Mycroft's shoulders, wings out and head and feet pointing down as it plunged on its target. The wings swept along his arms, and the willow leaves were here too, floating past in the air as the hawk dove, and tying the front and back images together. Below the hawk was a tree that John thought must be an oak, with an owl perched among the branches. 

The rural aspect changed, as across Mycroft's lower back was an unmistakable cityscape, not any particular city, but more of an impression of city-ness. The water continued here, too, shown as a river running through the buildings. 

John moved around to face Mycroft once more. He reached out with one hand, but hesitated, as he would before touching a painting or a statue. Mycroft took his wrist, firmly but not unkindly, and placed his hand flat against his breastbone. "I won't smudge," he said.

John ran his hand slowly along the skin, first watching it and then closing his eyes. For some reason he expected to be able to feel the colours, or at least where they changed, but it was all smooth. Unusually smooth, he thought, and then realised why. Mycroft had no body hair; of course it would ruin the images, or at least mar the enjoyment of them. John closed his eyes and leant in with his mouth, running lips and tongue where his hand had already travelled. He'd never felt anything quite like it, the skin soft and smooth but with a man's solid musculature underneath. Mycroft drew in an audible breath.

John pulled back. "More," he said, a statement and not a question this time.

John stared as Mycroft dropped his trousers and stepped lightly out of them. The creek under the willow tree and the city outline both darkened as they descended, until the two designs merged in a band of midnight blue decorated with small stars, as if a night sky was wrapped around Mycroft's hips. 

Taking up the entire side and front of Mycroft's thigh was a lion, rampant, fangs bared and claws out. Its tail curved around the back of Mycroft's leg, the tip reappearing higher up on the inside. The lion's hind feet were obscured in the dust it was scuffling up from the ground, done in tones of yellow and brown. 

The ever-present willow leaves were here, too, falling through the air, keeping the elements of the design bound together. Dust and leaves faded out below the knee, leaving the feet bare and shockingly pale by comparison.

There were more designs John couldn't quite make out on the insides of Mycroft's legs, as his eyes scanned back upwards and then he thought, _That_ must have hurt -

"They use an anaesthetic for that part," Mycroft said. "After all, one could hardly leave it out."

"No," John agreed, moving closer. "You couldn't leave the design like this incomplete." 

John felt as if the images were pulling him inwards, as he came closer and closer to see them properly. The artwork was masterful, and without volition he started to touch the stars scattered across Mycroft's hipbones, fingers sliding slowly from one to another.

Mycroft reached down and grasped his hand. "Bedroom."

============

John stopped for a moment in the doorway. He'd never known anybody who actually _slept_ in a four-poster bed before. The rest of the bed was like something from an expensive hotel: crisply made with white sheets, and far more pillows than any one person could use.

The whiteness of the linens brought out the colours of Mycroft's tattoos all the more strikingly, and John was suddenly reluctant to remove his clothes, suddenly ashamed of the ordinary-even-before-the-scars body underneath.

"Don't," Mycroft said, taking hold of the hem of John's jumper and silently asking for permission before removing it. "Your markings were won with honour; mine are only bought."

John ducked his head and lifted his arms as Mycroft pulled the jumper smoothly off over his head. He still couldn't help pressing his right hand over the mass of scar tissue on the front of his left shoulder, detectable even under his shirt. "It's hardly the same thing," John said resentfully.

Mycroft merely took him by the wrist and placed his hand at different spots on his body: John felt the scar first, and then looked at it. A long, sweeping curved ridge on Mycroft's side was concealed in a blue and white swirl of the stream; an old immunization scar on his shoulder was a knot in one of the willow's branches. John felt rather foolish.

"Stop worrying and relax," Mycroft said. "Don't think I'm going to be either surprised or put off by what you've got under your clothes. It's hardly as if I don't know already." He stopped and cocked his head almost wistfully. "I'm rather looking forward to seeing it for real, actually. Photos only go so far in providing information."

"Photos?" John asked, unsure of whether he felt upset or flattered.

"Mmm-hm," Mycroft assented, seizing John's mouth again and swiftly popping his shirt buttons. 

John's ability to think unravelled away with his buttons, while Mycroft seemed, unfairly, to have no trouble coordinating his mouth and hands. John's trousers were suddenly loose around his hips and falling even as a hand curved around the back of his head and Mycroft's tongue slid through his teeth and stroked the roof of his mouth.

John, a little surprised at his own daring, pushed Mycroft down onto the bed and took care of his own shoes and socks, kicking out of the last of his clothes before leaning over the bed, letting Mycroft's hands pull him down to lie alongside.

He couldn't see the tattoos in any detail in the dim lighting, but Mycroft's skin was warm under his hands, and John couldn't resist taking great long strokes of his torso, the smoothness of it more erotic than any male body he'd ever touched before. No hairs to catch in his fingernails, or to interfere by being between what should be the sensation of skin against skin.

No hair. _Anywhere_. Including...

Mycroft's hands were on his arms, drawing him close, but John whispered, "Please, just let me...," and pulled back, wanting to concentrate solely on the feel of the body displayed in front of him, knowing exactly what he wanted to do. 

John placed his mouth firmly over Mycroft's heart, and then headed steadily downwards, leaving a continuous line of kisses. He was almost aching with anticipation when he reached his goal, pressing Mycroft's thighs wide apart so that he could reach every inch of delicious nudity with lips and tongue, nothing to interrupt his enjoyment, savouring the warm sensitive skin avidly.

Mycroft groaned and twisted on the bed, but John pinned his hips down with both hands and continued his assault, licking and kissing and nipping relentlessly until the entire area was wet with saliva. It was perfect; no bristly hairs rasping his lips, no concern about an accidental tug ruining the moment with a sting of unwelcome pain. Every single millimetre available to his touch.

John ran his hand over the wet skin and up to clasp the hard shaft firmly, stroking it from base to tip while he dipped his head down again to suck Mycroft's sac into his mouth, one side and then the other. He felt a slight tremor run through the body underneath him, and stroked faster and harder with his hand while his tongue slid down to caress the tiny area of the perineum.

Mycroft was panting loudly, somewhere up above John's head. John got a momentary glimpse of one hand knotted around a fistful of sheet, and felt a smug flicker at this evidence of his ability. There was a definite moan, and Mycroft's hips lifted, pleading. John took pity and pulled away from his exploration, sucking the swollen erection as deeply as possible in a single smooth movement.

A loud "Ahhhhaa!" was torn from Mycroft's throat, and John felt the hot joy of pleasing his partner throb in his own groin. Just a little more... John pulled off, then sucked again deeply and curled one hand close around Mycroft's sac, feeling everything tighten and pulse in his grip, and Mycroft was shuddering all over, spurting again and again into John's mouth, enough that he couldn't take it all but had to allow it to spill over, slicking everything.

Mycroft lay back on the pillows, face flushed and hair surprisingly messy. His lips, parted to breathe, were still swollen from the hard kisses he had given John earlier. 

"You look more debauched than I would have thought possible," John said.

Mycroft smiled lazily, running one hand through the mess on his groin. "We all have hidden depths," he observed, suddenly flipping John onto his back and wrapping his hand, warm and slickly wet, firmly around John's erection. "Some are just better hidden than others."

John closed his eyes and let Mycroft take over. If he had been able to pull his thoughts together enough to think about it, he would have expected a fairly quick number of strokes until he came, in a pleasant but hardly spectacular way.

Instead Mycroft pulled him up to the edge and then backed off, not once but twice, leaving John breathless and twisting in the sheets. If he lay still, the hand slid skin over hardness, sending nerves endings sparkling, fingertips playing with the delicate edges of the crown and teasing his slit. When he pushed desperately up into the hand, the sweet pressure was removed, a quiet rumble of amusement taking its place.

Finally John gave in, gasping " _Please_ , Mycroft!" aloud, and the hand tightened around him, quickening pace, and Mycroft's mouth was on his once more, tongue thrusting inside. John grabbed at Mycroft's shoulders for support as the hot tightness behind his balls burst outwards, a peak of pleasure that could not bear sustaining, followed by the necessary slide down the other side, dizzy and breathless.

============

John woke slowly. He was dimly aware of drifting up from a deep sleep, from having an entire night for once without the slightest trace of a nightmare. He felt absolutely wonderful, even before he remembered all of the night before. Then he still felt wonderful, but also somewhat stunned. Himself and Mycroft?

He rolled his head to the side to look. John was a little surprised to find Mycroft still asleep beside him, on a weekday morning. He must have left instructions not to be disturbed, and John felt flattered that such a powerful man's schedule could be swept aside for him. 

Whatever it was that Mycroft actually _did_.

He could see the tattoos again in the morning light coming through the windows. They were no less amazing on a second viewing, and John slid as close as he could without touching Mycroft in order to study them some more. 

He still couldn't believe the delicacy of the work, the edges on the willow leaves and the shading in the hawk's feathers. Most of the design seemed to have a 'nature' theme, but the cityscape across the lower back didn't fit. John was sure that there was a single theme; he just hadn't found it yet.

Mycroft rolled over and pushed the sheets half off as he started waking. The left thigh bore a lion; the right had a white horse, like a knight's warhorse from a painting. It was rearing up, eyes and nostrils wide and teeth bared, matching the lion's pose of ferocity. Then John saw the horn; not a horse, but a _unicorn_ , and he had the missing piece of the puzzle. Mycroft opened his eyes, stretched, met John's gaze and smiled.

"I have it!" John almost shouted in triumph. "It's England, isn't it? Willows and oaks, rabbits and foxes... the lion and the unicorn - they're the supporters of the coat of arms. It's a representation of all of Britain. It's...," and he lowered he voice as the full meaning of it hit him. "It's what you are."

"Mine to defend," Mycroft said with a lazy smile. 

" 'England's green and pleasant land?' " John quoted as he lightly stroked his fingers through the willow's branches. "Do you have a 'dark satanic mill' too?"

Mycroft lifted his right arm up over his head, and John saw a red brick building, straight from the Industrial Revolution, high up on the ribcage. He touched it gently, still surprised that the texture was smooth skin and not the roughness of brick. Mycroft flinched away slightly from the touch.

John frowned. "Wait... no, that's impossible." A broad smile broke over his face, and he drew his fingertips straight down Mycroft's side, laughing as Mycroft recoiled violently and swatted his hand away. "The 'most dangerous man I've ever met' can _not_ be _ticklish_."

"Well, obviously then I am not," Mycroft retorted, and they both started laughing before moving on to more serious business.

**Author's Note:**

> For more information on _irezumi_ , go [here](http://www.japanesetattoogallery.com/).


End file.
